


in transit

by limned



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Sickness, Travel, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 21:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limned/pseuds/limned
Summary: Clint knew he’d gotten worse on the flight to Dubai, but he didn’t realize how much worse until he walked out of the gate and saw Natasha.





	in transit

Clint knew he’d gotten worse on the flight to Dubai, but he didn’t realize how much worse until he walked out of the gate and saw Natasha. Her mouth pressed instantly into a flat line and she said, “Oh, hell no,” and steered him into a seat near the windows before pulling out her burner.

He closed his eyes. It didn’t help much with the dizziness because his ears were still doing the odd buzzing thing that had started during descent.

He should be coming up with something, should be telling Natasha that he’d be fine after a minute or whatever, but he was so _tired._ And her hand felt solid and reassuring on his shoulder.

“I’m not dragging him on a fourteen-hour flight,” Natasha was saying into her phone, with enough of an edge that he didn’t think she was talking to Phil. “Even if they would let him board, I’m not doing it. He looks like death warmed over.” There was a pause, and then he knew for sure it wasn’t Phil when she said sharply, “Go fuck yourself. And when you’re done with that, reschedule the debrief. We’ll check in tomorrow.”

He opened his eyes in time to see her snapping the burner viciously closed. “I don’t look like death,” he protested. “I’m much prettier than that.”

He didn’t get the smile that he’d hoped for, but Natasha snorted and rubbed his shoulder. “Yes, you’re very pretty,” she said. “You also look like you need about twenty hours of sleep. Did you get any on the last flight?”

Clint shook his head and immediately regretted it; there went the dizziness again.

He knew he hadn’t hidden it well enough when her eyes tightened. “I should have made them seat us together,” she muttered. “We’re staying at the transit hotel until you’re better. Only you could spend three weeks in a place that has malaria _and_ plague and come out with the regular flu, Barton.”

“Cause I’m a tough motherfucker,” he said, though the effect was probably ruined when he started coughing.

It was a little unexpected when Natasha didn’t jab him about it. She just waited until he got the cough under control and hooked a hand under his elbow, urging him up. “Come on. Hotel isn’t far.”

Clint wouldn’t have done it unprompted but she didn’t give him a choice: she pulled his arm over her shoulders so he could lean on her as they walked, keeping her own arm wrapped around his back. He was silently relieved for the support before they’d gone very far. And also for the fact that she was wearing flats. It dropped her height several inches from her usual boots and made it a little easier for him to lean without being too obvious to passersby.

He’d been okay when they changed planes in Mauritius—not great, but okay. He hadn’t started feeling really bad until an hour into the longer flight to Dubai. But Natasha had been about twenty rows away, far enough that he couldn’t even see her, so he couldn’t relax enough to get any sleep. It was tough to deactivate those instincts when they were fresh off an assignment.

“Give me a heads-up if you plan to puke on my shoes.”

“Roger,” he said. He didn’t think it would happen; he was pretty sure he’d gotten past that stage in Madagascar, but saying it out loud might jinx him. This airport also had so little carpeting that there were shiny reflective surfaces everywhere, stabbing into his eyes, and he couldn't be certain that they wouldn't make him vomit all on their own.

The elevator to the hotel was thankfully only a half-dozen gates away. He fought to look as bright and normal as possible when they reached the security check upstairs. Natasha had documentation from the clinic in Antananarivo to certify that he hadn’t actually picked up the plague, but he dreaded the thought of being hauled off for a secondary exam if the security personnel were paranoid.

Mercifully they didn’t notice anything, and then Natasha was parking him in a lobby seat before she went up to the desk.

Clint usually loved watching her go to work on hotel staff. Five years ago she’d done a month undercover behind the front desk of a luxury hotel in Italy and they hadn’t spent a night in non-upgraded rooms since. She knew exactly how to tip and charm and club-sign her way into the good graces of front desks around the world, even hotels that were theoretically booked full. The woman on duty was already smiling and nodding after less than a minute of Natasha talking to her— _thank god_ , he thought, and shut his eyes again, just for a second.

“Clint, hey.”

He startled awake, blinking, to find Natasha standing over him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know. Let’s go, we have a room.”

Getting up physically _hurt_ this time, a twinging ache from his neck all the way down his back, and his feet were swollen and tender because he hadn’t moved around enough during the flight from Mauritius. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this bad short of being shot or blown up.

He nearly staggered getting into the elevator and Natasha had to steady him against the back wall. “It’s too warm in here,” he said hoarsely. He wanted to close his eyes again but he was hot and too dizzy. It felt like Natasha might wind up having to carry him the rest of the way if he didn’t concentrate—she could do it, but damn that would be embarrassing.

“You’re a mess,” she informed him, but her voice was softer than normal. She didn’t say anything else until they were finally inside the hotel room.

The bed was one of the most welcome things Clint had ever seen. He would have fallen straight into it if Natasha hadn’t shepherded him toward the bathroom. “You’ll feel better,” she said firmly when he tried to whine about it, and kept talking in quiet reassuring bursts while she helped him undress and get into the shower. “Arms up… lift your feet… come on, you smell like medical and two airplanes, this will help… no, lean here, don’t try to stand on your own.”

The water felt like heaven. Natasha had set it to the perfect degree of cool and it seemed to sluice away half of the sickness clogging his mind, washing off the sweat in a gloriously heavy waterfall deluge.

“Because I’m always right,” she said. He ducked his head sideways under the water to deliver a weak version of the stare he always gave her when she read his mind like that, and her lips twitched in response. She was standing close with the shower door open, one hand on his arm to check his balance and a soapy washcloth in the other, little sidesprays of water beading on her clothes and in her hair.

“You could get undressed too,” he suggested, watching a drop roll down her neck.

Natasha gave him an unamused look. “Save it for later, Barton. I don’t trust you not to try that, no matter how sick you are.”

She scrubbed him down quick and efficient and bundled him into one of the hotel robes, and made him sit on the closed toilet lid with strict instructions not to move while she retrieved bottled water from the minibar. Then he did get to watch her clothes come off, but for the first time in two years he couldn’t fully appreciate it. His head was buzzing again and he was listing against the sink counter by the time Natasha finished a rapid two-minute helicarrier version of a shower, with the door still open so she could keep an eye on him.

Even if she hadn’t been taking care of him all along, Clint would’ve known she was worried just from that. She hated commercial air travel like fire, hated being trapped so close with strangers and isolated from their real weapons, and normally she spent almost an hour cleaning up afterwards to wash the feeling away. And she was voluntarily staying inside the airport transit security bubble until he got better.

He couldn’t help smiling at her as she wrapped herself in a robe and walked over to him.

He felt like absolute hell, his eyes weren’t focusing accurately, his feet hurt, and all of it would’ve been terrifying a few days ago, but they were safe and clean and it didn’t matter if he wasn’t a hundred percent field capable. He didn’t even have to do this shitty post-mission recovery time alone anymore. He wasn’t sure when that would stop seeming surreal and like a miracle. This normal stuff, watching as she toweled off her hair, dug more cold medicine out of her carry-on, prodded him to finish a second bottle of water. He thought he might never get used to it.

Natasha flicked her thumb against his forehead, although so lightly that he barely felt it. “Stop smiling at me that way. It makes you look like a halfwit.”

“Okay,” he said, and kept smiling anyway. He knew it was probably telegraphing too much, Natasha didn’t miss things like that, but he was sick. He’d take the chance to get away with it while he could.

She watched him for another few seconds, then sighed and tugged him to his feet. “Time for bed, weirdo. You need to sleep for about a day.”

The sheets were almost as perfect as the shower, beautiful and cool. Clint moaned involuntarily as he stretched out flat on his back. It felt so good to be lying down that he didn’t care when it triggered another coughing fit.

Natasha was moving around the room to turn off the lights and he wasn’t surprised when she settled into bed propped against the headboard, switching the TV on low. She always needed some time to settle after they got a hotel room. The surprising thing was when she did the next part first: she nudged him and whispered, “Come here,” and tugged him over to curl against her, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Tell me if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I will.”

He was fading fast and couldn’t really fight it, but he held out for as long as possible, listening to Natasha’s breathing and the low rush of the air conditioning and the murmur of the TV, listening and feeling her fingers stroking almost imperceptibly slow against his back, listening and holding on.

**Author's Note:**

> I've apparently developed a huge thing for Natasha taking care of Clint. And this is my avatar story for how much I hate flying through Dubai.


End file.
